


Big Girls Don't Cry

by femmenerd



Series: Winsisters [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, F/F, girl!Dean, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-09
Updated: 2006-11-09
Packaged: 2018-01-12 17:14:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1193223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femmenerd/pseuds/femmenerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“John had two daughters” AU. Stanford era. Sam POV. Don’t read it if you have issues with girls making out or somewhat incesty implications. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Sam dreams.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Big Girls Don't Cry

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ [here.](http://femmenerd.livejournal.com/143779.html)

Sam dreams. 

Restless, sweaty, nighttime hallucinations that feel too real, too cloying, visceral, fucked-up. She wakes breathing hard, touching her thin lips with salty fingers and blinking in the dark. Everything feels placeless and headswimmy until a glance over her shoulder reveals Jess with her shock of glossy, blonde hair and girl-soft warmth. So Sam curls her angles up into Jess’s now-familiar curves and clings to the comforting _thump thump_ of steady heartbeats and in-out breaths. 

Pushing her own smaller breasts into Jess’s T-shirted back, Sam feels better. 

This girl in her bed feels solid, but the dreams linger. Her sister glitters and shines in dream-memory. Dee. Dee, always hiding her fear behind a pouty-lipped smirk, whether she’s cocking a gun, choosing which boy and which pick-up truck for the night, or picking fights at school. Sassing back to everyone except for Dad. 

_Big girls don’t cry, Sammy. Buck up now._

*****

Jess has these friends, the kind of girls who spell “woman” with a “y” and hold protests and hand out fliers in the quad. And they talk. They talk all the time. 

Sam’s generally quiet when they come over. Just smiles a little at Jess and lowers her eyes beneath hanging bangs, waiting for the time when they’ll all go home and there will be touching and kissing and simple things that make sense. 

The door closes and Sam stands up, thrusting her hands into her pockets. Her jeans hang low on her narrow hips, comfortable. One, two, three seconds and she’s got Jess pushed up against the wall, her fingers in soft, cotton panties and the nightmares–they come in the daytime sometimes too–are completely gone. 

It’s not that Sam doesn’t like them, she does, but when those chicks talk about the “struggle,” about being a dyke,–being on the outside–Sam just thinks that this is the most “normal” her life has ever been. She doesn't know what to say. 

***** 

“Are you my girl?” Sam pants into Jess’s neck, watching as Jess comes apart under her hands, relishing the way she can make this sweet-smelling girl feel good. 

“You know I am,” Jess moans, gripping Sam’s shoulders tight.

“I have been since that very first day,” Jess says later, quietly, stroking Sam’s lower back as they get ready for bed. “You’re my hero, Sam Winchester.”

Some guy stole Jess’s wallet, threatened more, and Sam beat the bastard into a bloody pulp. A stranger to the rescue. A stranger Ms. Jessica Moore of Sebastopol, California took home to her dorm and kept. That’s how they met. 

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Jess asked, holding up an ice pack to Sam’s cracked lip.

“My dad was a Marine,” Sam said, hoping that explanation would be enough. And Jess bought her strong, silent type routine. It worked.

*****

They’re getting drunk on red wine when Jess asks Sam when she first kissed a girl. Sam doesn’t know the difference between Cabernet and Pinot so Jess has been explaining it to her, being from wine country and all. But Sam’s had a hard time paying attention–she was mostly watching Jess’s pretty lips move. Jess wears shiny lipgloss. Sam carries chapstick in the pocket of her flannel. 

Dee always wore lipstick, blood red.

“It was...a friend,” Sam says, low. 

“Was she straight?” Jess asks and looks sympathetic when Sam nods yes.

_She was my sister._

But Sam can’t say that. Because there are some things you just can’t explain.

 _She thought she was training me for boys._

*****

“People are saying that you’re a slut,” Sam growled, pissed off in the moment over something stupid, some run-of-the-mill Dee bullshit. She should have been used to it by then. 

Dee stopped and tilted her head, hands on hips. “Is that what you think, Sam? Do you think I’m a big ol’ ho?” 

“No. You’re my sister,” Sam said, shamed. 

“Well, that’s all I care about,” Dee stated, firm. “Besides, dudes do whatever the hell they want and no one gives a shit. Who gives a fuck what other people think? Not me. Nobody can tell _me_ what to do.”

_Yeah, except for Dad._

But John didn’t pay attention to that kind of stuff about his girls. They were his warriors-in-training, might as well have not sprouted tits.

So it was while their father was away on hunts that Sam studied for the SATs and Dee got drunk with dudes who knew about cars, showing off what she could do with a wrench and what she could do with her cunt. 

***** 

The rhythm of school and work and Jess lulls Sam into complacency...almost. She still carries a vial of holy water in her backpack and there’s a gun and some knives under a floorboard Jess doesn’t know about.

Dee would approve. 

_You never fuckin’ know, Sammy, you never fuckin’ know._

Sam feels a little badly because she knows that Jess tries to fill in the gaps, and that she probably thinks that Sam’s silences are of completely human origin. That maybe social services should have been alerted because of the scars.

But she doesn’t say. 

_It was a werewolf, not my Dad, who put that there. He’s not bad, not like that–he just wanted me to be the same as him. The same as Dee._

In Jess’s loving eyes, in the things Sam’s professors write on her papers, in her test scores, Sam dares to see a future. 

Sam dreams.

*****

The nightmares are getting worse. They’re not just rehashes of things that happened before. Not just flashes of the kind of thoughts about her sister Sam wouldn’t let herself have when she was awake. 

They’re fire and the ceiling and the end to everything. Again.


End file.
